Stay With Me (21 page)

"Well, um, yes, well, thank you," William says. "Your father, though, I don't know that this, um, is an idea he'll love."

"I'm not asking him," Clare says. "Being in Poland means he gets to miss a whole lot of things."

So, she's mad at Da for being gone. I've wondered, although I'd believed her that she was fine with Da's going away. But how could she be? Her mother dies. A year later, her sister dies. And then her father asks for a huge favor before leaving her for a year. Of course she's mad. Not only at Da, but it's easier to be mad at him. Being mad at Rebecca is impossible.

"Yes, right, um, in Poland," William says. "I see. Listen, Leila, keep an eye on yourself. I don't think it's environmental, but stress-related. I'm not going to tell you to avoid stress, but don't overdo."

I'd like to hug him, but who'd want to touch me? However, he puts his arms around me, saying I'm not contagious. And to be good.

The cream does help, and Raphael drags his TV and DVD player into the room where I sleep. But, oddly, it's reading that takes my mind off my skin. I start on my ten pages of Monte
Cristo
and then go way past them. The main character did get out of prison and has been slowly planning his revenge on the people who put him there. He's been in Paris doing nothing but going to parties and then today, finally, he starts ruining the lives of the people who plotted to put him in prison. I read right through dinner—Clare brings me a tray—until I'm done.

Da was right. I really liked it. Okay, maybe not until the end, but that's a lot for me. And now that I know how it ends, I probably would like the rest of it more. I start all over and find it's much more fun when you can notice all the little details that are going to matter later.

I wonder at what point in the story this became a book Rebecca enjoyed. I suppose I could ask Clare, who may or may not know. But the bigger question is when will I get over wishing that I could ask things of my dead sister.

By Monday morning I look a lot better, but you can still see I had some kind of rash attack. Everyone at Charlotte's office says you can hardly see a thing, but I am not stupid. If you can hardly see something, it means the something is still there. When Eamon calls I wind up telling him the truth because I'm such a horrendous liar that he thinks I don't want to see him.

"I know Elizabeth was nasty," he says. "But did I do something?"

Well, yes. Your old girlfriend from years ago was acting like I'm next. So I'm guessing that's something you did or said.

"I have hives," I say, knowing I can never explain why Brett made me so uncomfortable. "I'd rather not see anyone."

"Hives? What are you allergic to?"

"Nothing," I say. "I just got lucky."

He laughs and says we'll have to make do with Wednesday.

It's when I'm finishing my cake that it occurs to me I am sitting smack in the middle of how I've pictured myself winding up. I'm in the café eating pastry; there's a book in my bag, and a man seated across from me at the table. Some of the details are wrong—the book isn't a difficult one that I understand, the table's not in the window, and Eamon is far too confusing to be my great love. However, I've pretty much decided that liking what I read is more to the point than
conquering
it.

It seems to follow that if I can have that sort of freedom with books I'm certainly allowed to have it with the man who is, for one reason or another, here in my picture. I remember the question I thought of the other night:
What does he want from me?
I'm surprised at how little effort it takes. I don't feel either brave or nervous.

"Do you like me?" I ask. "I know that you don't and why you can't, but sometimes I think you do."

Eamon looks at me as if debating whether to say
That's not true
or
What are you talking about?

I am tempted to add, for the sake of clarity, that I'm asking if he likes me as more than a friend, but the truth is if he pretends to misunderstand I'm going to get up from this table and walk away without ever regretting it.

"What do you want me to say?" he asks.

A question whose answer I've given no thought to whatsoever. Is it enough for him to say,
Yes, I like you.
Because then what? At some point he will leave the city and return to L.A. I may be ambitious, but at least five years stand between me and the start of any real work. I can see clearly how impossible this is.

And yet there's one question whose answer I have thought out, and it suddenly comes to mind. It's my useless question from months ago: What would I have told Rebecca if I'd known of her plan? My initial answers have given way to the one I hope I would have said, over and over. I know Eamon's question is different from the Rebecca one. But the answer is the same.

"Stay with me," I say, wishing I'd said it to my sister but also wanting to hear it from him.

"Stay with you?" he asks.

"No," I say. "You've messed up the pronoun."

It only takes him a minute to see what I mean.

"Leila, you're not wrong to think that I like you," he says. "And if things were different, I would say exactly that."

"I have to be twenty," I say.

"No ... it's not ... no," he says.

"Smarter?"

"No," he says. "God, no."

I look down at my plate, happy enough to see that there's some cake left.

"It's just all wrong," he says. "You're starting out and I'm well past that."

"But you like me anyway," I say, so as to be clear.

"Yes," he says. "I thought it would be enough for us to ignore that."

"It should be," I say. "But, you know, I get mixed up easily. And I have a boyfriend I've been mean to."

I could also tell him about when Rebecca died. How everyone I knew got wrapped up in her being gone; my father took my mother with him and Clare's and Raphael's every move was shaped by my sister's death. And how he fits into all of this by making me feel protected from the ultimate
poof, vanished.
But I don't say anything because this is rapidly becoming one of those times when words don't work.

"Mean how?" Eamon asks, and I have to think to understand what he's saying. Ben. He wants to know about Ben.

"Oh, well, I stopped sleeping with him," I say. "And then wouldn't start. Start it again."

Eamon tries not to laugh, which I don't appreciate, and a small smile escapes him.

"I don't think that's considered mean by most people," Eamon says. "It's one of those things that happens. He'll get over it."

I'll wipe that smug look clear.

"Except I wouldn't sleep with him again because I wanted to with you," I say.

He doesn't say anything, but he is also no longer smiling.

It's clear we can't sit here forever. Surely there's nothing left to say about what is both
impossible
and
all
wrong.
I'm the one forcing the issue, so I should probably be the one to leave. On the other hand, this is more my café than his. Once he's gone, I'll still have a book in my bag and cake to eat. This is
my
picture of how I've ended up so far.

"I think I can only afford to be confused by Rebecca right now," I say. "And I can't change being seventeen."

"I know," he says.

You know. Well, this is it.

"I'm going to close my eyes," I say. "And when I open them, you'll be gone, and maybe when I'm done starting out, I'll come to California and find you."

"Leila," he says.

"We'll go from there," I say, amazed at how incredibly sad this makes me. And relieved.

He's quiet for a while, saying, finally, "You have this spot on your neck."

My hands fly up to my collarbones, where the worst of my hives had appeared. I thought they were all gone and simply cannot believe they've shown up again.

"No, not that," he says, his hand reaching for my neck, wrapping around it until his fingertips settle into the long, narrow groove in the back. "This."

The warmth and pressure of his hand spread and travel through me.

"If you let me stay," he says, "we could take it from here."

It is both quick and slow, lingering in certain places while not quite vanishing in others.

I nod. Yes. Okay.

"I inexcusably adore you," he says.

The sad feeling has disappeared, but also the relief.

"It will go all wrong," he says.

Only the yes remains.

"Inevitably," he says.

"Thanks for the sales pitch," I say, but cover his hand with mine.

I
WALK HOME WITH MY NECK
aflame and my body pleasantly heavy, knowing I have to do what I should have done months ago. I think of a carefully worded, brilliant e-mail and then remember I'll have to write it. So instead I go to Clare. For the kind of help I could never have gotten from Rebecca.

"Do I need to call Elsa?" Clare asks when I have spelled everything out for her. "Are they going to feel like I failed them if I don't send you off to a Swiss convent school?"

"No," I say.

"If Raphael didn't like Eamon so much, it's what he'd do."

"Mom thinks I should be true to what I want," I say. "And I'm not asking for a permission slip. It's about writing to Ben."

"Use the telephone," Clare says. "If you break up with him via e-mail, you'll never forgive yourself."

The call, which I dread, goes less than well. I say, as clearly and easily as possible, that I want to go out with someone from work. That I almost wish I didn't, but that Ben deserves someone not interested in anyone but him. He wants to know what school Eamon goes to and I say,
He's older.

"What do you mean, 'older'?" Ben asks. "We'll be seniors. He's in college?"

"He's thirty-one," I say. "He writes for television."

Silence.

"You realize there's only one thing he wants from you," Ben says finally. "I mean, Leila, really. It can't be your brains he's after. It's not like you're at all smart.

I've hurt his feelings by not wanting him the way he wanted me. And the price for this is to be called stupid.

"I'm so sorry," I say. "You were my—"

But he hangs up before I can finish. Which, in a way, saves me from having to regret whatever useless words I had in mind.

Raphael goes to Ben's apartment to get My Scott,
who's then sent to live with Clare's boss, Edward. Who assures me he's a cat lover from way back and is glad to be able to do us a favor.

Eamon and I go out to dinner, as first suggested in May. Kissing is no longer a one-time event, but it's still the way I remember it. I worried it would be like an eclair, which is always a better idea than
an
actual dessert. Being with him is pretty much what it's always been, but without the keeping secret how much I
want
to be with him.

He comes with me to see plays. Charlotte has been offering me free tickets all summer. Both Clare and Raphael work late more often than not, so I've only gone a few times by myself. A lot of the fun is discussing it afterward, which is probably why I've always liked reading plays more than books. They're for a group audience, which makes it less lonely.

"It's the same in TV" Eamon says one night. "Film, too. Except that those group audiences are unbelievably huge compared to theater."

I think of the DVDs I promised myself to rent when I spoke to the production designer at Mr. Greyhalle's apartment. And of Brett's comments about the director in Texas going past schedule and overbudget. The part of Charlotte's job that I like the most is the work before the play happens. If Brett is right and the invisible work for a movie is
immense,
then maybe I would like it.

"Can we watch movies where you know the people who did the work?" I ask Eamon. "Or TV shows?"

"Of course," he says. "Do you have any in mind?"

"Well, I want to know more about what kind of work makes a movie possible," I say.

"I can get you on a set," he says. "Maybe not here, but definitely in L.A."

"Are you asking me to go to California?" I ask him, thinking of Brett again.

"I'm not," he says.

"You don't want me to go to school there?"

"Leila, be fair," he says. "I cannot ask my seventeen-year-old girlfriend to plan her future on anything having to do with me."

This makes a kind of sense. I'm likely to change my mind about lots of things, and I won't thank him if I make decisions because of what he wants.

"However, should you find yourself in California," he says, "I can arrange a set visit. I don't even have to be in town to do that."

"Let's start by looking at some of your shows," I say.
"Repeats or anything where you know what the work was like."

"Okay," he says. "That I can also do."

Both movies and television, I decide, are much more interesting if you either know or are trying to figure out how and why certain things were done. Not just stunts, but casting, locations, and, in TV at least, ridiculous plot twists.

After seeing a loud and badly staged musical that I can't believe is still running, Eamon and I go to a small Spanish restaurant on Sixteenth Street. It's full of square tables, red candles, and an onion smell. After we both agree that it takes a lot more than one great tap dancer to make a musical work, a silence settles over us. The same uneasy kind I remember from the first time Ben and I went out, as if the word
date
had taken away our ability to talk.

I scan the menu as I always do, looking for the cheapest item so as to eliminate it from my order. I've somehow managed to make Janie's rules keep me company. If they're ridiculous, they're also things I know. I look over at Eamon, who is still shrouded in quiet.

I tap on his wineglass. "What is it?"

Which is when he tells me that the person he's been subletting his New York apartment to is moving out.

"I've decided not to renew the sublease," he says. "It looks like my show's going to get picked up, and even if Dad agrees to some live-in help, I should stay and keep an eye on him. For a bit."